Discimer: I Don't own Harry Potter

  The house on Privet Drive felt far too still for te spring. Faded curtains hung in the windows, barely stirring, as a warm June breeze drifted across the suburban neighborhood. Across the street, a small dog yapped and cars whooshed past, but no sound came from within Number Four. It was a strange hush in a pce once governed by a rigid routine of forced efficiency—now repced by an oppressive quiet. Inside the home, the Dursleys were scattered: Vernon in a threadbare armchair, Petunia in the adjacent kitchen rummaging through cluttered cabinets, and Dudley sulking upstairs behind a closed door. The entire space seemed to sag under the weight of unspoken tension.

  Outside, the early-summer sun was high, and one could almost imagine a parallel existence in which everything was bright and orderly. In another corner of the country, indeed, such a world thrived: a young boy named Harry lived among wolves, forging a vibrant new life. But here, in the Dursley household, that possibility of warmth was only a faded echo—unseen, unacknowledged, and at best half-remembered. It had been months since October 30, 1988, when Harry—whom the Dursleys derisively called their "freak"—had quietly disappeared from their world. And in that absence, the house had begun to drift into a slow and steady decay.

  A single object y near the front entryway, bridging these two separate worlds: a scratched-up spoon, its handle bent awkwardly, tarnish gathering around the edges. It was the st item Harry had used in the house. Petunia had meant to toss it out, but it remained on the floor as though waiting for him to pick it up. This spoon—so unremarkable yet tangibly connected to the boy's presence—became a silent witness to the gradual unraveling that had taken hold of the Dursley home.

  Days earlier, Harry had been nestled in a cozy den among gentle, watchful wolves. But with Chapter 9 closed on that serene image—on new friendships, magical crafting, and the affectionate warmth of a family that accepted him—this chapter turned instead to Privet Drive, unveiling a starkly different reality. Where Harry felt flourishing comfort, the Dursleys faced emptiness and mounting disorder. The quiet swirl of dust motes in a narrow hallway of Number Four served as a grim counterpart to the glow of runic symbols in a woodnd den. So began the story of a household bereft of the small, ensved presence that once, ironically, had provided it structure.

  —

  They first felt the absence on October 30, 1988, though at the time, they might have called it "relief." The day started with an early morning gloom pressing against the windows. Vernon Dursley, rge and imposing, sat at the kitchen table, flipping through the newspaper. His broad shoulders seemed unusually stiff, and each rustle of the pages reverberated in the silent room. Petunia, thin-faced and sharp-eyed, poured coffee with a trembling hand. She gnced around at the dull floral wallpaper, noticing how the corners had begun to curl from humidity. Her gaze flicked to the floor, seeing muddy footprints that no one had bothered to mop up.

  Harry was gone. They had rid themselves of him—dropped him off miles away, left him in some remote forest. A final solution for their greatest inconvenience. Vernon's mouth twisted into a sembnce of grim satisfaction whenever he recalled the moment they shoved him out of the car and sped away. If anyone had asked, he would have insisted that they were finally free. Petunia shared that sentiment outwardly, though anxiety pinched her features, betraying a deeper turmoil.

  The dining room, once so meticulously scrubbed by Harry's small hands, stood uncharacteristically still. Not a single pot rattled on the stove, no water hissed in the kettle. In the corner was a single ring of grime on the countertop where Petunia had left a coffee tin. She'd never done that when Harry was around—he had been the one to whisk such things away, wiping surfaces clear as soon as they were used.

  A peculiar hush weighed on everything. Dudley, barely awake, stomped down the stairs and flopped onto a dining chair. An old stain on the cushion caught his eye—the result of a spilled juice box from weeks ago that Harry would have cleaned without question. Dudley's mouth twisted in annoyance. He wanted breakfast. Usually, by the time he came down, something was sizzling on the stove—a pot of oatmeal or some rashers of bacon that the "freak" had prepared. Now, the kitchen smelled only of stale coffee. The dissonance gnawed at him, an uncomfortable vacuum he couldn't quite put into words.

  Petunia noticed Dudley's look and braced herself. She fiddled with her hands. "Toast," she muttered, half to herself, half to her son. But there was no toast. There wasn't even bread out on the counter—someone needed to unfreeze a loaf from the pantry. Harry had always done that the night before.

  Vernon smmed the newspaper onto the table, rattling their teacups. His jaw clenched, and his mustache twitched. He stared at the empty sink. He told himself that he was better off now that the boy was gone. No more freakish nonsense, no more worrisome incidents. Still, something skittered in his chest. He pushed the thought aside, pressing the coffee cup to his lips and scowling at the bitter taste. If the house felt too quiet, well, that was because they were adjusting. They'd adapt. They had to.

  That first day set the tone: a mixture of triumph and dread. Petunia bustled about, opening and closing cabinets, trying to recapture the sense of order she'd prided herself on. But everywhere, small messes peeked out—spills on the floor from st night's cooking that Harry would have cleaned, coffee rings, bits of dust on the window sill. By noon, the dust had begun to accumute in corners. Petunia tried to sweep, but her heart wasn't in it, and she resented the job. She didn't articute why she resented it—only that it now fell to her. Typically, that worthless boy would have handled it. She told herself she was gd. Freed, at st.

  As the day wore on, tension grew. They avoided speaking about Harry, yet everything reminded them of him. An unwashed pte, a pile of Dudley's clothes left in the hallway, a mop leaning forlornly in a closet. In the past, Harry would have leapt to fulfill these chores, spurred by fear or by the barked orders they threw at him. Now, no one stirred to do them. The tasks stacked like silent accusations. Eventually, Vernon and Petunia locked eyes. A spasm of discomfort passed between them, then they looked away. At dinner that evening, the table was bare except for a pot of hastily boiled peas and some undercooked meat. The conversation was stilted, the ctter of cutlery on the ptes uncomfortably loud. Dudley picked at his food, face twisted in dissatisfaction. They all felt the overshadowing hush in the house—like an echo that refused to settle.

  —

  In the weeks that followed—November rolling into December—the house kept a clumsy, awkward sembnce of living. There were days Petunia attempted to restore her old strictness, forcing herself to vacuum the living room or scrub the counters before Vernon returned from work. But there was always more to do, chores that Harry once performed invisibly. Instead of stating they missed the boy, they masked their frustration. Vernon often sat in the living room after dinner, gring at the yer of dust on the mantel, but making no effort to wipe it. Petunia scurried around, shifting junk from one pce to another, but she never achieved the pristine state she once demanded.

  Mornings became the worst. No one rose early enough to prepare breakfast properly, so they snatched quick bites of cereal or toast that often went stale or moldy. Coffee grounds scattered across the countertop, and used filters were left lying about, staining surfaces. Petunia would hiss at Dudley whenever he left an empty carton of milk on the table, her voice shriller than usual. Her anger, though, carried a hollow ring—there was no scapegoat to pick up the sck behind the scenes, no trembling child to bme. She had to handle every crisis alone.

  One drizzly evening in mid-November, Vernon stumbled through the door after a tiring workday, hoping for a neatly id-out dinner as had once been the norm. Instead, the kitchen lights were off, and the smell of something unwashed, something faintly sour, lingered in the air. He flipped the switch, only to reveal a sink piled high with dishes. Pots and pans caked with old food threatened to topple if he touched them. Petunia was upstairs, evidently wrestling with undone undry. Dudley, plugged into a loud television program in the living room, paid no mind to the chaos. Vernon's stomach twisted with annoyance. He let out a bark, calling Petunia's name, but her answer was deyed—she was rummaging through an endless hamper of clothes, muttering curses under her breath.

  The house had turned into a byrinth of half-finished tasks. A white film dusted the furniture, which Petunia might have polished daily in earlier times, but it had been weeks since the st thorough cleaning. The once-gleaming floors, which Harry had scrubbed on hands and knees, now dispyed scuff marks and suspicious stains left untended. The stale odor lingered, mingling with the smell of cheap air freshener Petunia occasionally sprayed in vain. All of it formed a slow, creeping sense of rot within these walls.

  Even the smallest tasks reminded them of Harry's vanished presence. Dudley spilled a soda one evening, and it soaked into the carpet. He stared at the puddle in confusion; cleaning it was not his job, never had been. That used to be the freak's responsibility. But no one came. Days ter, the sticky residue clung to the carpet, a dark patch that no vacuum could fix. Each time he passed by, Dudley's lips curled in disgust, but he did nothing.

  Such scenes repeated themselves in small domestic vignettes that spanned November and December. The Dursleys never openly admitted how severely Harry's departure affected them. They told themselves they were better off. Yet, day by day, the household lost its sterile neatness. A banister loosened, and no one tightened its screws. A mp flickered, and no one repced the bulb. A scuff mark marred the front door, and no one stooped to clean or repaint it. Christmas approached with forced cheer—Petunia arranged a half-hearted dispy of decorations—but the house felt emptier than ever, as if the holiday existed only to highlight the cold gloom enveloping them.

  Their mealtimes had become a fiasco. Vernon and Petunia bickered about who should handle the cooking. Petunia insisted she had enough to do; Vernon argued he worked all day. Dudley contributed nothing except compints. He'd demand a hot meal or whine about undone chores, but neither parent had the energy or willingness to indulge him. Their arguments usually ended in stony silence, ptes left unwashed, the family retreating to separate rooms.

  And so December departed with an anticlimactic hush, the year winding to a close in a swirl of unspoken resentments and a creeping sense of disarray. New Year's came and went without the usual fuss. Any fleeting illusions that discarding Harry had been the best decision were overshadowed by the daily stress that pinned them. Each time Petunia tried scrubbing the kitchen floor, she missed the quiet reliability of that scrawny boy, not that she'd ever admit it. Each time Vernon surveyed a messy living room, he felt an odd pang, recalling how instantly things had been tidied if he so much as snapped his fingers.

  —

  January arrived, harsh and cold. Though outside, frost clung to windows and bare branches creaked, inside the Dursleys' home the chill felt deeper than mere temperature. The central heating functioned, but no amount of warmth could chase away the gloom. In a small corner of the living room, a battered family photograph remained perched at an angle—Harry was not in it, of course, but the empty space in the background where he might have stood hovered like a haunting footnote. No one ever dusted the picture frame.

  Vernon spent more time in his study, flipping through financial statements. He had no reason to suspect that losing Harry would affect him at work—indeed, it hadn't yet. But something about the general disorder at home rattled him. The subtle synergy that once let him keep a strict schedule had vanished. He found himself oversleeping, missing a tie or a jacket because they were lost in a mountain of undry. His lunches, once neatly prepared by Petunia with Harry's help in the background, often went forgotten. Some days he left the house half-dressed, cursing under his breath. The tension carved lines across his face, and he snapped at colleagues with uncharacteristic frequency.

  Petunia's own regimen crumbled as well. Her sense of identity had been linked to controlling a tidy house: everything in its pce, no sign of disorder. Now, it felt like she was chasing chaos. She'd polish a table, only to find another corner caked in dust. She'd gather undry, then discover the hamper overflowing the next day with items Dudley tossed aside. The house smelled off—subtle must and stale cooking fumes. She flitted from room to room, pushing tattered grocery lists around, scolding Dudley for leaving wrappers everywhere, and scowling at Vernon for refusing to help. Yet she rarely completed any one chore from start to finish.

  When the phone rang, she sometimes jolted as if expecting news about that boy. But no call ever came. No policeman inquired, no neighbor questioned, no letter demanded their expnation. As far as they knew, no one suspected they'd discarded Harry. That should have been a relief, but the quiet suffocated them. On certain nights, Petunia stared out the window at the frosted wn, seeing only her reflection in the gss—haggard, worn, silently reproaching herself. She'd snap to attention if Vernon or Dudley approached, wiping away any sign of introspection. She told herself they'd done the right thing. They were free.

  Yet a strange paradox took shape: the more time passed without Harry, the more tasks piled up. Initially, they had felt emancipated from the "burden" of him, but ironically, that burden had shouldered the everyday grunt work. Now it fell squarely on them, and they found themselves incompetent at their own household. The staircase creaked ominously, needing a new nail to secure a loose board. The toilet clogged once, flooding the bathroom with an inch of water. In the past, Harry would have mopped it. This time, Dudley stood on the nding, exciming in horror as water seeped onto the hallway carpet. Vernon scrambled to fix it, cursing and slipping in the mess. Petunia fussed with towels, eyes wild. No one admitted it aloud, but they missed the silent pair of hands that once prevented such catastrophes or at least cleaned them quickly.

  Little reminders of this new reality dotted everyday life. One Sunday morning, Petunia rummaged in the cupboard for a fresh tablecloth but found only stained rags. She froze, recalling how Harry used to wash and press them. Another time, Vernon attempted to fill in a missing tile in the kitchen floor but gave up after a few minutes, leaving half-dried cement smears. The tile remained loose, a hazard they kept stepping on. Each misstep hammered home the quiet realization that their child servant had been the invisible glue holding their rigid routines together.

  Dudley's reaction manifested as sullen outbursts. He'd grown used to a life where every compint eventually got resolved by that scrawny boy—his game controllers cleaned, his favorite snacks replenished in the pantry, his bed made daily. Now, if he left crisp packets or empty cans on the floor, they stayed there. No one rushed to pick them up. His father barked at him to tidy his own space, which only stoked Dudley's resentment. The boy spent more time gring at a flickering TV in a messy living room, half aware that his comfort was slipping away, but not sure how to articute it. Once or twice, he rummaged in the hallway closet for some lost item, only to remember that Harry would normally fetch it for him. The thought made him sm the closet door in frustration.

  Mid-February brought a slight thaw outdoors, the icicles dripping from the eaves, but inside the Dursley home, the chill persisted. Vernon dragged himself to the office each day, returning in the evenings with an air of exhaustion, half dreading the mess that awaited him. Petunia's temper frayed at the edges. She snapped at Dudley for small infractions. Even the once-calm veneer she wore in front of neighbors began to crack. She'd pass Mrs. Next-Door in the street, forcing a taut smile, but her eyes darted nervously, as though the neighbor might peer into her home and see the disarray.

  One evening, as Vernon arrived home, he found Petunia hunched at the kitchen table, head in her hands. The overhead light flickered, giving the room a jittery, haunted look. Piles of unwashed dishes teetered precariously near the sink. A sour odor clung to the air—some neglected garbage, perhaps. Petunia didn't speak; she simply stared at the table's worn finish. Vernon set down his briefcase with a heavy thud, scowling at the filth around them. He wanted to bme someone—anyone—for the deterioration. In that moment, they exchanged gnces, a silent admission that the arrangement they once championed had fallen apart. Their home was unrecognizable, a sorry pce of dust and rancor.

  Still, they swallowed these feelings, burying them under curt words or forced normalcy. They never voiced regret. They never uttered, "We want the boy back." Instead, they coexisted with the creeping sense that they'd undone the very system that had maintained their illusions of a perfect life. The watery winter sunlight filtered through smudged windows each morning, revealing more dust, more clutter, more undone chores. The house itself seemed to sag in reflection of their own moral decay.

  —

  As March approached, bringing the first buds of spring, a subtle brightness returned to Privet Drive. Neighbors opened windows to let in fresh air, children pyed outside, and the hum of wnmowers drifted up and down the street. Yet Number Four felt stuck in a perpetual grayness. The Dursleys responded to the changing season with forced normalcy. Vernon tried, halfheartedly, to impose schedules—like chores pinned on the refrigerator—but no one obeyed. Petunia attempted to throw open windows, letting sunbeams in, but the dust swirling in the light only underscored the neglect. Dudley roamed about, compining that the house smelled musty, that dinner was always te or poorly cooked, and that no one was there to fix it for him.

  Here, the dynamic had fully shifted. In the past, the family presented a unified front, with Harry being their scapegoat. Now, they drifted in separate orbits. Tense silences repced mealtime conversation, resentments fred over trivial things. They never said "We made a mistake." They still convinced themselves that throwing Harry away was for the best. They feared the freakishness, the danger. They told themselves they were safer like this. But small irritations built: a door left ajar, a trash bin overflowing, a shirt left un-ironed. Each annoyance was a needle that pricked their denial.

  One crisp March afternoon, Vernon rummaged in the living room closet for a hammer. The banister on the stairs had gotten wobbly again. He cursed under his breath, rummaging past old shoes, umbrels, and random objects that had been shoved away. There, amid the junk, he spotted a small shoe that must have belonged to Harry. Torn near the heel, scuffed around the toe. Vernon froze, a peculiar tightness winding across his chest. He promptly tossed it aside with a scowl, refusing to acknowledge the flicker of memory it triggered—a memory of that skinny boy quietly trudging about the house, cleaning every corner. Vernon smmed the closet shut, telling himself he felt no regret.

  Yet for the rest of the day, his irritability rose to near explosion. When Petunia asked him to pick up groceries, he shouted at her that he was "no one's errand boy," tossing the car keys onto the floor. Dudley, witnessing his father's outburst, retreated to his bedroom, smming the door. That night, the entire household seethed in silent anger. They had pnned no dinner. They ate stale biscuits or leftover cereal. The stillness was suffocating.

  Gradually, their fragile illusions crumbled. Without the structure that Harry's forced bor had once imposed, the Dursleys' harsh routine y in disarray. The carpets hadn't been vacuumed in weeks, the bathroom sink developed a leak, and groceries were often forgotten on the table to spoil. They avoided the problem by ignoring it. Dust turned to grime, and tension turned to bitterness. What had begun as relief in Harry's absence was morphing into a self-made prison of confusion and exhaustion.

  —

  Time slipped into te spring. By mid-May, the outside world burst with color and warmth. Flowers bloomed in neat garden beds along the street, neighbors tended to wns in bright sunshine. But within Number Four, a gloom persisted. The gap between the outside brightness and the home's internal murkiness felt almost tangible, as though a dark film covered every surface in the Dursley household.

  Mornings were mechanical. Vernon woke with a jolt to the arm, rummaged in the hamper for a half-clean shirt, and left for work grumbling about how no one managed the undry properly. Petunia flitted around aimlessly, trying to keep some shred of dignity when she watered the front wn, but the moment she stepped back indoors, the smell of unwashed dishes hit her anew. Dudley became moody, stomping around, compining about broken game consoles or sticky floors. Each family member's frustration fed the others, creating a cycle of bme. More than once, Petunia tried to pass off small chores to Dudley or even insisted that Vernon "pull his weight," but these demands sparked arguments that left them all seething.

  In a telling moment one day, Petunia found herself in Harry's old cupboard under the stairs—now used as a dumping ground for random junk. She had gone to search for an extension cord. Dust and cobwebs clung to the cramped space. The memory that this was once the boy's bedroom hovered in the stale air. She found the cord, but her hand brushed against a torn piece of cloth, possibly a relic from Harry's old shirt. She froze. The light overhead flickered. For a second, she felt her breath catch. Then, with a sharp intake of air, she clenched her jaw, threw the cloth aside, and emerged from the cupboard as if chased by ghosts. She said nothing about it to Vernon or Dudley.

  Such silent acknowledgments cropped up more often as the days wore on. A broken mp in the living room that no one repced. A vacuum left out with a snapped belt. The corridor mirror, smudged and never polished, reflecting Petunia's worried eyes each time she passed. And always, the hush that repced any mention of the "freak," any admission that perhaps their decision had undone more than they'd bargained for.

  —

  By te May, the downward spiral was obvious to anyone who visited—though precious few did. Even the neighbors, once cordial if distant, rarely knocked on the door. Possibly the Dursleys' tense faces and drawn curtains discouraged them. Petunia kept up a fa?ade, smiling too brightly if she encountered someone on the sidewalk, but inside her home, the disorder ballooned. She was forced to do undry in frantic bursts. The washing machine rattled ominously, teetering on unbanced loads. Dried clothes, wrinkled and scattered, ended up thrown over furniture. The vacuum, if ever used, coughed up dust in a musty plume.

  Dudley voiced his frustration openly now. The novelty of having no competition for his parents' attention had faded, repced by boredom and irritability. He'd compin that the fridge was empty or that his clothes remained unwashed. When told to handle it himself, he'd scoff or shout. Petunia would erupt in a shrill scolding, Vernon in a deep roar, while Dudley stomped off, smming doors. A gloom settled in every corridor, a result of the friction they once vented on Harry but now had nowhere to direct.

  In one startling exchange, Dudley demanded something—fresh bedsheets, perhaps—and Vernon barked that if he wanted them changed, he could do it himself. The sheer shock on Dudley's face told the entire story. This was a boy who had never lifted a finger for chores. Now there was no hidden borer to fix everything at a snap. The next day, Dudley's bed remained unmade, the old sheets wrinkled and crumpled. He chose to sleep on top of the duvet rather than change it. None of them spoke about it, but tension ced every gnce.

  Petunia began mispcing small items. A pair of scissors, a tube of glue, her keys, a feather duster—none were found in their usual spots. She rummaged through drawers, cupboards, boxes, cursing softly each time. The ck of organization that Harry's daily work once ensured was felt acutely. She snapped at Vernon for never putting anything back. Vernon snapped at her for compining. Even the walls of the house seemed to reflect their arguments in sullen silence.

  Yet ironically, at the end of each day, the Dursleys gathered in the dining room for dinner, as they always had. They still tried to keep up appearances. But instead of the rigid, forced routine they once maintained, now there was a sense of gloom that hovered like a fog. Mealtimes devolved into quick bites of lukewarm, poorly cooked food, often done in near-silence. No one addressed the elephant in the room: that the "freak," once forced to cook eborate meals, was gone for good. The taste of half-burnt stew and watery soup was a constant reminder of how much they'd lost in discarding him.

  —

  The tension reached a new peak by te spring, just before June. The sun set ter, bathing Privet Drive in long, warm evenings. Neighbors opened their windows, letting ughter and the smell of barbecues drift through the mild air. But Number Four felt sealed off, curtains drawn, the air stale and stuffy within. In the living room, the wallpaper began peeling at the edges. A discolored patch near the baseboard told of an old water leak that no one had fixed. The once-prized sofa showed dark stains where spilled drinks had not been wiped up.

  One afternoon, Vernon stomped up the stairs, intending to retrieve a spare fuse for the washing machine, which had shorted again. He found the nding littered with Dudley's clothes, an overturned hamper, and bits of trash. Something inside him snapped. He roared for Dudley, who, from behind his bedroom door, gave a muffled, angry retort. Petunia tried to intervene, flitting up the stairs, clutching a worn dust cloth as if it might restore order. But her voice was shrill, the scolding fell ft. Dudley refused to open the door, and Vernon's face turned purple with fury. Eventually, he retreated, muttering about how he'd once had a neat, well-ordered home. Petunia's eyes caught his, and for a second, they shared a flicker of mutual understanding: This was what they had wrought by discarding Harry.

  Of course, neither spoke it aloud. Their denial ran deep. But each day hammered home the truth. Without that small figure in the background, picking up after them, the Dursleys were drowning in their own sloth and cruelty. The routine they once enforced had depended entirely on the unacknowledged bor of a boy they had spurned. The house's decay—untidy rooms, scuffed walls, stale air—mirrored their unraveling domestic life.

  —

  And so they approached the threshold of June 3, 1989, still in denial, still refusing to bel their decision a mistake. Yet the signs of colpse were everywhere. That evening, the sun lingered te, casting a golden glow over the front wn of Number Four. Petunia peeked out the window, noticing that the neighbors were enjoying a pleasant dinner outdoors. Over the fence, she caught sight of ughter and bright tablecloths. By contrast, her dining room y in dusky half-light. The overhead bulb needed repcing—it flickered, creating odd shadows on the peeling walls. She inhaled, swallowing a lump in her throat, but forcibly lifted her chin. She called for Vernon and Dudley to come to the table.

  The table was set with mismatched ptes—some chipped, others with faint stains. The once-fussy Petunia, who used to demand perfection, seemed not to care. She pced a casserole dish at the center, but its contents were half-cold. She forgot to preheat the oven. Dudley ambled in, scowling at the lumps in the casserole. Vernon followed, barely acknowledging them. Chairs scraped on the floor in the hush. They began to eat, if one could call it that: picking at lumps, pushing peas around. No one spoke. The silence weighed more heavily than any scolding or compint. The only sound was the tick of a clock—Harry's old clock, ironically, which still perched on the mantel.

  Time crawled. The living room's shadows lengthened. Outside, a warm breeze rattled the blinds, making them cck softly. Dudley slumped in his chair, arms folded, flicking gnces at his parents. Petunia stared at her hands, knuckles white. Vernon tried to carve a piece of the casserole but lost patience, thumping his fork onto the pte. No one had the energy to fight. They existed in a collective, suffocating gloom, like a py set in a single dimly lit stage with broken props and exhausted actors.

  A memory hovered in Petunia's mind: Once, not so long ago, Harry had stood in that kitchen corner, washing every pot until they gleamed. His scrawny arms covered in suds, eyes downcast to avoid punishment. Petunia used to lord over him, criticizing every missed spot. But those pots had been spotless, shimmering. She looked now at the dull metal pot on the stove, burned around the rim, caked with old residue. She swallowed, then forced her eyes away.

  No one voiced it, but the emptiness they felt was almost tangible. Their home, once so rigidly controlled, was now undone by neglect. The "freak," the scapegoat, the forced borer—Harry—was no longer there to hold the framework of their daily life together. In his absence, they had to face themselves, and that confrontation was bleak. The clock ticked onward, marking each passing second of their discomfort.

  At st, Vernon cleared his throat. "I'm off to bed," he muttered, pushing away his pte of barely touched casserole. His voice echoed in the stillness, but no one responded. He stomped from the room, leaving the dirty dish behind. Petunia's gaze flicked to Dudley, who also rose without a word, lurching from the table. She was left alone, staring at the congealing food. The overhead bulb flickered once more, then steadied. Outside, a neighbor's ughter rang out, and Petunia shut her eyes in humiliation, or possibly regret.

  The shadows deepened. At length, Petunia stood, stacked the ptes with trembling hands, and carried them to the sink. The dishwater she prepared was lukewarm, sloshing around in a way that reminded her of all the times Harry's small hands had done this chore. She paused, letting the water swirl around her wrists. In the reflection of the window above the sink, she caught a glimpse of her own face: lines around her eyes, her lips pressed thin. The bckness outside prevented her from seeing anything else, but she imagined the reflection of an empty seat at the table, a missing presence that once obeyed her every command.

  As she scrubbed halfheartedly at a pte, something inside her twisted. She turned off the tap abruptly, leaving the rest undone. Water dripped from the pte, spattering onto the countertop, forming small rivulets. She let them be, stepping away. The kitchen overhead light flickered again, intensifying the lonely hush. From the hallway, the ticking clock continued, indifferent.

  Dudley had retreated to his room, Vernon to the master bedroom. Petunia flicked off the light and stood in the living room, arms limp at her sides, gaze drifting over the unkempt furniture. The windows gave a faint reflection of the street mps outside. She took in the sagging couch, the piles of junk mail, the dusty corners, and the sense of emptiness that gnawed at every surface. She inhaled sharply, but her chest felt tight. There was no telling how to fix any of it, and she refused to link these troubles to the absence of the boy. But that knowledge lurked, unspoken, at the edges of her mind.

  The entire house, from the scuffed floors to the unpolished mantel, spoke of a life unravelling. A stark contrast to the thriving, gentle forest den that Harry now called home. Though the Dursleys never saw or heard that realm, they lived the consequences daily. They had expelled the scapegoat they called "freak," only to discover they had ejected the quiet bor and structure that had kept their oppressive routine intact. Standing in this tomb of lost order, Petunia looked at the leftover spoon on the table—a spoon that reminded her, though she would never dare admit it, of the scrawny boy who once cleaned every utensil with trembling diligence.

  Silence stretched. The final day of the timeframe—June 3, 1989—had arrived with no fanfare. Months of living without Harry had chipped away at every illusion the Dursleys had about their perfect life. That evening, they gathered one st time in the dim dining room, sitting around the table. Dudley stared at a battered handheld game with disinterest, Petunia toyed with the edge of a stained tablecloth, and Vernon leafed through a crumpled newspaper, not really reading. The overhead bulb hummed, the silence broken only by the occasional shift of a chair. No one wanted to mention how undone their home felt, or how stifling the atmosphere was.

  A single mp cast weak light over the scattered papers and the ptes of barely touched food. The camera—if there had been one—would linger on each detail: Petunia's finger tapping the table in anxious, repetitive beats; Vernon's brow slick with perspiration; Dudley's vacant stare. And then the camera would drift to that empty chair, the pce where an unremarkable boy might once have sat, forced to endure their contempt, forced to maintain their illusions. Now absent. The hush in the room was a condemnation, a silent requiem for everything they'd taken for granted.

  —

  Outside, in a distant forest far from Privet Drive, Harry James Potter had found love, acceptance, and unimaginable growth among a family of wolves. He soared in levels and skill, forging mythic items, learning new spells, and building a life that cherished him rather than abused him. But here, in a suburban house on a neat street, the departure of that same boy had spelled the end of what small order the Dursleys possessed. Where Harry was healthy and thriving, they had grown hollow, undone by their own neglect.

  No one uttered a word of regret. No voices rose to confess they had made a grave mistake. They never spoke Harry's name, not even in passing. Yet his absence resonated in every neglected chore, every broken mp, every scuff on the floor. Vernons's illusions of tight-lipped normalcy, Petunia's fantasies of prim perfection, Dudley's self-centered expectations—all crumbled under the weight of real bor that had once been silently performed by the boy they reviled. Now, all that remained was the biting irony that removing him had removed the st vestige of stability in their oppressive household.

  Eventually, after long minutes at the dinner table, Vernon pushed the chair back. Petunia stood, smoothing her skirt. Dudley fled upstairs. The light overhead flickered once more as they dispersed, leaving the dining area in darkness and unwashed ptes. And so ended June 3, 1989, at Number Four, Privet Drive—a pce that once boasted neat hedges and pristine floors, now reduced to gloom and disarray. The neighbors, hearing no outbursts, assumed the Dursleys carried on as usual. Yet behind those closed curtains, the family lived in silent disrepair, each too proud or too ignorant to face what they'd truly lost.

  The final frame of that evening: the unlit hallway, a single bulb flickering before dying out entirely, the meager light repced by shadows that swallowed the scuffed floors, the peeling wallpaper, and the memory of a small figure once crouched in a cupboard. In the hush, one might almost hear the echo of a child's footsteps, dutifully cleaning, tidying, cooking—steps that no longer sounded in the hollow rooms.

  And so, without fanfare or sweeping revetions, the Dursleys learned what it was to truly live without the "freak." Their home, their once-structured life, had rotted from within. In pce of the boy they had cast aside was only a vacuum that grew more suffocating by the day. The lines etched on Vernon's face, the tremor in Petunia's hands, and the restless anger in Dudley's eyes were the only testimony to the hollowness they now endured. They could not say how it might end—only that the oppressive hush persisted, day after day, a fitting requiem for their cruelty.

  [Name]: Harry James Potter (The Abandoned Pup)[Race]: Human (7/10 Magical Bindings Remaining)[Title(s)]: Omega Pup of the Wolves, Artisanal Hearth-Keeper, Burgeoning Archmage, Mythic Artisan, Pack Stylist[Level]: 75[HP]: 7,500[MP]: 60,000/2,500,000[Condition]: Healthy, Thriving, Content[Attributes (S.P.E.C.I.A.L.)]:||Strength: 15||Perception: 30||Endurance: 20||Charisma: 16||Intelligence: 30||Agility: 25||Luck: 18||

  [Skills and Bundles]:Expanded Survival and Crafting Bundles, Advanced Magic Skills (Fireball, Invisibility, Stoneflesh, Greater Healing), Mastered Runic Crafting, Mythic-level Crafting Mastery

  [System Coins]: ~4,500[Inventory]: Rare herbs, enchanted materials, Mythic and Legendary items

  Though the Dursleys would never know these facts, Harry remained strong, fulfilled, and free, leaving them alone in a silent, crumbling house—ironic proof that their hatred had destroyed only themselves.

  AN:

  More on my Patreon:

  /c/hitmenscribbles

  More than 20 fanfiction are currently active on my Patreon

  Up to 150+ Chapters across the 20+ fanfictions

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  Kyubii Son Reborn: Harry Potter/Naruto Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Rescued by Tails: Harry Potter/Sonic the Hedgehog Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Rescued by Lamia: Harry Potter/Monster Musume Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Harry Potter and Toon Force: Harry Potter/Looney Tunes Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Shinigami's Vacation: Naruto/Bleach Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Harry Potter and BBPS Reborn: Harry Potter/ LitRPG (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Lonely Ruler and Her Sunshine: Harry Potter/One Piece Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Raised by Mew Reborn: Harry Potter/Pokemon Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Fragile Hope: Harry Potter/Saw series Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Symphony of Machines: Harry Potter/FNIA Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Despair's Unexpected: Savior Harry Potter/Danganronpa Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  The Silent Lulbies of Forgotten Factory: Harry Potter/Poppy Pytime Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Threads Woven Between Two Souls: Harry Potter/Coraline Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Queen Of Forbidden Forest: Harry Potter(Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Worlds Unbound Magic: Modern Harry Potter(events are 20 years so instead of 1981 it is in 2001) (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  Moonlight and Mist: Harry Potter/Percy Jackson Crossover (Up to 13 chapters avaible now)

  You can read any of my fanfictions, which are published here with 2 weeks of early access before everyone on my Patreon

  Neon Shadows of Fate: Chapters 17 and 18 are already avaible on my Patreon

  Bound by Shadows and Sorrow: Chapters 17 and 18 are already avaible on my Patreon

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